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The belt’s dropped carelessly to the floor, metal studs clattering loudly on his new hardwood. The pants go down easy and settle low on his hips, and he grips handfuls of that disgusting slicked-up hair as Travis kneels at his feet. 

“Motherfucker,” Travis scoffs, staring up at him. One of his hands is already wrapped around the base of his cock, and the other is gripping the man's side just a little too hard. “Who goes commando in a pair of goddamn  leather  pants? Are you trying to take my eye out, or what?” 

Callate."  Shoving the smaller man to his knees is easy—dealing with his attitude less so.  He resists the urge to just stuff his Johnson in the guy's face and be done with it--but just barely. That'd be  rude.  He won't sink to Travis' level like that.  (...And he figures rudeness wouldn't earn him any points toward a second blowjob, anyway.)

"You gonna suck it or not, gatito?

"Yeah, whatever. ...And quit calling me that."

The kid’s got a real smart mouth. He always has.

Travis shuts up and his lips wrap around the head of Garcia's cock. The younger man steadily moves his head forward to take the rest of Garcia's length in; the warmth and tightness of his mouth, the steady rhythm of his sucking--it nearly makes his knees buckle and he hisses with pleasure through clenched teeth. 

It’s better served for things  besides  talking, he’s decided.